


Baby It's Cold Outside

by Hansotsi (Karmula)



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Gay Sex, Hans is a Lightweight, Hotel Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmula/pseuds/Hansotsi
Summary: Set in an AU where Hans convinces Anna to let him search for the Queen in her stead, the prince finds himself unwittingly paired with burly mountain man Kristoff. When he discovers that Arendelle’s already-harsh mountain landscapes are truly too difficult for them to navigate in the midst of Elsa’s storm, the two stop for rest at the cabin next to the Wandering Oaken’s Trading Post and Sauna, where Hans quickly discovers - after a glass or two of brandy - that maybe Princess Anna isn’t his one true love…





	Baby It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Hansoff Week, 2014. Edited and reuploaded in 2019.

Outside, the wind howled and whistled eerily through the forest, whipping stiff, frost-covered pine branches against the side of the wooden cabin and spattering thick globs of wet snow against the windows, a relentless and violent force of nature Hans was all too eager to avoid.

Inside, the log cabin was lit softly with cheery golden firelight that bathed the prince in a warm, comfortable glow and illuminated its homey, cosy furnishings; a slightly overstuffed and well-worn chaise lounge by the fireplace, several velvet armchairs with more patches and darns than original fabric, a patterned burgundy woollen rug, a tiny wood stove and several cedar bookshelves stacked high with leather-bound books.

He sighed contentedly, leaning forward and rubbing his gloved hands together as he held them out towards the fire that glowed in the grate.

He could almost forget that he was trapped smack-bang in the middle of a sorceress-induced eternal winter, if it weren’t for one thing…

Kristoff hammered on the wooden door, beating his fists against it insistently, his teeth gritted against the numbing cold. “Hans! _Hans! _Let me in, you selfish, spoiled, stuck-up prince, you – Oaken said this cabin was for _two_, you know, and it’s _cold _outside–”

“Really? I could hardly tell, it’s so warm and toasty in here,” Hans called back, smirking. He heard the ice harvester growl and chuckled, lacing his fingers behind his head and reclining on the lounge, propping his head up on one of the few cushions that didn’t have a broken seam.

“_Ugh!_”

_ Bang! Bang! Bang! _

“Now, now, Kristoff–”

“Let – me – in!” Kristoff roared, each word punctuated with a huff and another bang as he continued to pound on the door with all his might – which, Hans considered, was actually quite a lot.

Perhaps it would be best to just let him in – he didn’t want the mountain man to damage anything, after all. This room was pricey enough as it was (_“Oooh, sorry, that’s no good. With supply and demand, we have a big problem!”_) and it _was _awfully cold outside.

Sighing, he staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the door. A gust of wind squeezed through the crack beneath it and whipped around his ankles, and Hans barely managed to stifle the agonised cry that immediately forced its way up his throat at the sensation, a violent shiver shooting down his spine. At the same time, he felt a pang of guilt spark and settle deep in the pit of his belly. He could barely imagine how _cold _the blonde must have been, frozen to the core and stranded outside in the swirling snow – and it was all his fault.

Hans bit his lip, worrying it nervously between his teeth. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, his eyes cast downward in shame, he reached blindly for the doorknob, tugging it open –

Just as Kristoff launched his full weight against it, crashing down on top of the prince and knocking him to the floor. The door banged against the wall of the cabin, a flurry of clumps of dirty snow and shards of ice blowing inside before the door slammed itself shut, muffling the sounds of the storm.

“Oof!”

“Oh, boy,” Hans gasped, chest heaving as he struggled to refill his lungs with air, but the ice harvester was still firmly on top of him, his shocked eyes – a smooth, creamy, chocolate brown, he noticed – just visible above the cloth tied around the lower half of his face, large as dinner plates. He looked just as mortified as Hans felt, and he hurried to scramble to his feet as quickly as he could, grunting and brushing frost from his furs.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m – I’m so sorry, here, let me help!” He stuck out his mittened hand, still apologising profusely, and grasped Hans unceremoniously by the lapels, hauling him to his feet when the redhead attempted to wave off his offer, wheezing something along the lines of ‘It’s okay, I can do it myself, no need to apologise.’

As tall as Hans was, Kristoff still towered several inches above him at least, and Hans swallowed heavily as he looked up at the monster of a man before him, his mouth and throat curiously dry. He met the blonde’s bashful gaze, and their eyes locked briefly before Hans cast his downwards once more in shame, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“I’m, uh – I’m sorry I left you out there. I…” he trailed off, unsure of how he could voice his apologies.

This was strange – he’d never had trouble articulating anything before. Even his older brothers, loathe as they were to admit it, _had _admitted that he, the twelfth spare, had always been undeniably smooth, collected, never at a loss for words and with always the right thing to say, whatever the situation. But now? Something was different, and he found himself, for the first time in his life, struggling to string together a coherent sentence. He trailed the toe of his boot uneasily across the wooden floorboards, clasping his hands together at his front before chancing a glance upwards.

“I’m just sorry,” he admitted finally, once more meeting the blonde’s eyes.

Kristoff shifted uncomfortably on his feet, licking his lips, chapped from exposure to the storm. There was a sense of vulnerability in both Hans’s wide green eyes and his tone that thickened the air, and he had never been one to deal tactfully or gracefully with tension. He found his gaze trailing slowly down, over the high arch of the man’s cheekbones, across the prominent beak of his nose, before settling on the delicate Cupid’s bow of his lips. Kristoff’s own lips parted as he drew breath heavily, his mouth watering of its own accord. He bet _those _lips weren’t chapped or dry; they were probably soft, smooth, _sweet_–

Wait, what?

Kristoff coughed, clapping the prince’s broad shoulder. “Don’t sweat it,” he grunted, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the apology before ploughing past, lumbering towards the fire and brushing snow and frost from his attire. The moment was broken, and neither of the men was sure whether they should be feeling relieved, or overwhelmingly, crushingly disappointed.

Hans followed, trying to keep the bitter, half-frustrated, half-upset expression from his face. He had felt a connection, he was sure; hadn’t Kristoff felt it, too? The redhead settled himself gingerly on the edge of the lounge, hugging a pillow to his chest and squeezing tightly, burying his sizeable chin in the fabric.

Tugging his kerchief down to his neck, Kristoff knelt before the fire, selecting a dense, heavy-looking log from the woodpile and feeding it to the flames, hefting the dead weight in his hands like it was nothing. Hans’s breath caught in his throat, and he clutched the cushion tighter. Oh, how he would relish taking control of such a fine, well-muscled specimen. He could only imagine, too, what treasures laid beneath those thick, ice harvester’s trousers, could only imagine how it would _feel _to claim them as his own, to cry out as he took the boy as his steed and rode him until–

He shook his head in a frantic attempt to dash these vulgar images from his mind, thinking instead of Princess Anna. Anna, with her blue doe-eyes, her slim, dainty figure, the slight swell of her breasts beneath her corset, the rugged, chiselled muscles of his back visible even through his thick furs as he stoked the fire–

Wait, _what?_

The prince let out a yip, clenching the cushion in his grasp so tightly there was an audible _pop _as two of the seams burst open. The ice harvester spun around, frowning. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh – yeah, yeah, everything’s _fine_! I just, um – it’s still really cold, is all,” Hans managed to choke out, laughing nervously and rubbing the back of his head with one hand, stuffing the ruined cushion behind his back and hoping he sounded convincing. The blonde seemed to buy it, shrugging and nodding sympathetically.

“Yeah, it’s freezing – but hey, I have something that might, uh, warm us up.”

“You do?”

“Mmhmm.” Kristoff reached with one hand into the satchel that was slung haphazardly around his neck, withdrawing a single bottle made of thick, mottled glass and filled with rich, dark, honey-golden liquid. Hans felt his breath hitch again; _alcohol? This _was Kristoff’s way of ‘warming up’? His stomach churned in exhilarated anticipation, and he felt his face flush hotly, a bright blush suffusing his cheeks and creeping down his neck.

“You drink, right? It’s nothing fancy, especially compared to what you’ve probably had, you know, being a prince and all –”

“I haven’t had anything.”

“Huh?”

Hans blushed even more deeply, his face almost unbearably hot at this point. “I, uh… I haven’t ever _had _a drink, exactly,” he whispered, embarrassed. A twenty-three year old prince who hadn’t had so much as a sip of ale in his entire life? It was pathetic, that’s what it was. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. His brothers had just never deemed him ‘fit’ for a glass. That was their excuse, anyway. His deprivation of one of these most basic adult privileges, one of the things so many people, especially royals of the Southern Isles, associated with manhood, had led to a strange sort of fetishization of the beverage, to the point where Hans found himself growing, as he was now, incredibly hot and flustered at the mere _sight _of a bottle of the stuff.

“Really?” Kristoff asked, surprised. “Oh, well, that’s okay. I’ll teach you. See, it’s all about how you drink it. You can’t swig too much, or you might get sick or get the hiccups or something. The aim is to be able to hold your liquor. You don’t want to be getting wasted off one drink. Plus, you really want to savour the taste – here, I’ll show you.” He rummaged around in his satchel, extracting one chipped, grease-smeared glass and setting it carefully on the floor before returning to his search. However, from the fall of his expression it was clear that whatever he was looking for, he hadn’t been able to find it. He looked up at Hans apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck with one large, still-mittened hand.

“I only have one glass… Do you mind if we share?”

Hans nodded enthusiastically before he realised exactly what Kristoff had actually said and quickly switched directions, shaking his head with just as much vigour. “No, I don’t mind! I don’t mind at all!” His voice came out a touch squeakier than he had intended, but thankfully the blonde seemed not to notice, or, if he did, not to care, instead busying himself with uncorking the bottle, gripping it firmly around the neck and wedging the base of it between his thick thighs for leverage.

Soon enough, the bottle had been successfully uncorked (Hans was sure he could see a slight sheen of sweat beneath Kristoff’s unkempt mop of blonde hair at the exertion) and the glass had been filled almost to the brim with sparkling amber liquid, like molten crystal, that danced in the firelight. It smelled strong, and tickled at his nostrils invitingly.

“I’ll take the first sip, okay? Just… watch what I do, and then try to copy me.” The redhead nodded to show he understood, and, at the affirmation, Kristoff brought the glass to his slightly parted lips, tipping his own head back until a small rivulet of honey-coloured liquid slid past his lips and pooled on his tongue. He swilled the alcohol around his mouth, holding it there until it was room temperature before letting it slide effortlessly down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement as he swallowed heavily. He smacked his lips and sighed in contentment, his eyelids hooded in delight, before rising up on his haunches and offering the glass to Hans.

“Here. Now you try,” he prompted, swirling the contents of the glass as if to emphasise his offer.

“What is it?” Hans asked, hesitantly reaching out a shaky hand, clammy with sweat, and taking the proffered thing, studying it intently.

“Brandy,” Kristoff replied shortly, licking his lips. “Good stuff. Probably better with ice, but good stuff all the same. Kind of like whiskey, only without the aftertaste – oh, but, uh, you wouldn’t know about that… Just try it, see how you go.”

“Okay…” Breathing deeply in an attempt to alleviate his nerves, Hans attempted to mimic how Kristoff had sipped his drink – only, instead of a delicate sip, the redhead managed to upend the glass completely. He coughed, choking as he struggled to swallow what seemed like several mouthfuls of brandy, his cheeks bulging.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The blonde darted forward, instinctively taking the now-empty glass from the other man’s hands and pulling him to the floor, slapping a fist against his back. “Come on, Hans, just spit it out if you can’t swallow, it doesn’t matter–”

A thick, unappealing mixture of brandy and saliva dribbled from the prince’s mouth onto the lapels of his jacket, his once perfectly-pressed, clean-as-a-whistle-jacket, but he was feeling much too lightheaded to care about the resulting mess. From behind him came a sigh of relief, and he felt himself being suddenly spun around.

“What the _hell_ was that, Hans? You drank the whole thing!”

Kristoff’s eyes were wide, urgent, filled with a kind of innocent fear born of deep-rooted fondness that Hans hardly dared to believe. Well, if he had been sober enough to recognise it, that is.

“It – _hic_ – burns,” Hans whined, his voice rough, raspy, as he pressed his cool, clammy palm to his forehead, chest heaving.

Kristoff chuckled, his momentary anger forgotten. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a case of the hiccups there, princey-boy,” he snickered, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

“But I don’t – _hic_ – wanna have the – _hic_ – hiccups,” Hans whined, pouting. Kristoff found his eyes glued to the prince’s lower lip, its delicious pinkness and fullness accentuated by that adorable pout he loved so much. He gulped, a bead of sweat trickling down his back between his shoulder blades.

“Maybe – maybe there’s something I can do to help.” Before Hans could ask what – and before he lost his nerve – the ice harvester leaned forward and caught the prince’s lower lip between his own, sucking gently, before brushing his mouth flush against Hans’s in a gentle, hesitant kiss, the redhead’s sharp, angular nose pressing into his cheek.

Kristoff pulled away, sitting back on his haunches as he gauged Hans’s reaction, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

“I can _feel _the brandy, _here_,” Hans giggled, rubbing his belly as if nothing had happened, “and _here_. It feels _funny_.” He tapped his temples knowingly before leaning forward, his eyes suddenly gaining a sudden clarity that Kristoff hadn’t even realised was missing. “That felt _really _good – can we do that again?” He puckered his lips and closed his eyes, and Kristoff couldn’t deny that it was tempting – but Hans was clearly drunk, and somehow he _didn’t_ fancy the possibility of waking up to an angry potential-ruler with the full might of the Arendelle government _and _the Southern Isles’ government behind him.

No matter how cute he might be.

“Hans –” Kristoff began.

“You know,” Hans interrupted, pressing a clumsy finger to Kristoff’s parted lips. “You’re jusso – you’re jusso _cute,_ I juss wanna… wanna… mmm, wha was I saying again?”

Oh, God – he was _slurring _his words, for Christ’s sake! Could he _get_ any cuter?

“You were–”

“No no, wait, I ‘member, I ‘member! I was saying… you’re jusso cute, you know, and I juss wanna… you know those ropes you have in your sled?”

Kristoff nodded, and Hans giggled again, leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially in the blonde’s ear in a husky, seductive tone.

“I juss wanna tie you _up_,” he whispered, popping his lips on the ‘p’ and smirking lopsidedly, tracing his gloved finger delicately around the edge of Kristoff’s lips before withdrawing, fumbling awkwardly with his glove. Finally he managed to remove it, chucking it to the floor without a second glance, and returned immediately to his teasing.

“I…”

“Shhh – no talking, baby.” His breath stank of brandy, but Kristoff would be lying – and blatantly so – if he said that he minded. Cooing softly, Hans slipped a single digit into the ice harvester’s mouth, and Kristoff welcomed it eagerly, suckling at it gently and running his hot, moist tongue along its length. Hans moaned appreciatively, something stirring deep within the bowels of his belly at the sight of this powerful man submitting so _easily _to his hand. Fighting every urge in his body, he pulled his finger back out and stood up, swaying only slightly on his feet. “Remove your clothes, boy.”

Kristoff followed his orders without a moment’s hesitation, shedding the thick and many layers of his ice harvester’s uniform, dropping them to the floorboards with a dull, muffled thud.

His body was cast in a soft, golden glow in the firelight, these highlights and their resulting shadows perfectly accentuating his toned stomach, his bulging pectoral muscles, the moderately thick yet somehow incredibly sexy layer of insulating fat that Hans supposed all rugged mountain men must possess. Finally, his gaze found the harvester’s manhood, shorter than his own yet thicker, much, much thicker, lined from base to head with prominent veins and pulsing, tip already slick with pre-come.

“Onto the chaise, now, Kristoff,” he ordered, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.

He obliged – as Hans had known he would – somehow displaying less equilibrium that Hans had, despite the fact that he was completely sober. He practically collapsed onto the lounge, grunting gruffly as he did so.

Hans climbed on top of the powerless blonde, straddling his broad waist and smirking as he rolled his hips and pressed his clothed, throbbing manhood against Kristoff’s bare pelvis. “You like that, don’t you, you naughty boy?”

“I – I do,” Kristoff groaned.

“You like it because I’m a prince, and I can – I’m _good _at stuff, ‘cause I’m a prince. No, not even a prince, damn it, I’m a king! A king! _Your _king!”

God, you could tell he was drunk.

“Yes, Hans, you’re my king!” Kristoff assured him, grasping the redhead firmly at his hips and bending his own knees in an attempt to press himself closer to the prince, as close as he possibly could, desperate for some sort of release. He was punished with a swift swat to the back of the head. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “What was _that _for?”

“_I’m_ the one who gets to decide what we do – I’m the _king_, remember? Now, roll over!”

Resigned, Kristoff did as told, flipping himself over with a grunt and burying his face in the chaise, biting down hard to muffle the agonised groans that kept trying to fight their way past his lips. His member, rock-hard and pulsating with raw need, was pressed uncomfortably and painfully – although not necessarily in a bad way – into the lounge as well. Hans wrapped his legs firmly around Kristoff’s lower back, letting one dangle to the floor and hooking the other underneath the blonde’s belly, grinding against his firm ass.

Kristoff felt Hans’s length – longer than his own, but slightly slimmer – wedge itself between his bare buttocks, still clothed and still pumping furiously. He gasped, and Hans chuckled, threading his ungloved hand through the blonde’s shaggy locks and reaching down to caress his jaw with the other, cupping it gently.

“Do you want me inside of you, Kristoff?” Hans breathed, his lips tickling the outer shell of Kristoff’s ear, his hot, alcohol-laced breath turning the ice harvester’s skin a blotchy red upon contact. The gloved hand that cupped his face trailed down from his face along his naked, well-muscled torso until it reached his cock and began rubbing, massaging eagerly, eliciting a deep, rolling moan from its owner.

“Yes… my king,” Kristoff said huskily, his breathing laboured.

Gripping Kristoff’s shaft in his fist, stroking from base to tip and giving it the occasionally squeeze, Hans unbuckled his trousers with one hand, taking several minutes in his woozy, light-headed state to tug the damn things down. Hans flicked his thumb over Kristoff’s swollen head, the pad of his gloves quickly becoming soaked with moisture.

He yanked his pants down to his knees, exposing his fully erect member. He continued to stroke Kristoff, slowing down the pace slightly as he focused instead on spreading apart the blonde’s fuzzy buttocks. He released the hand that he had been fisted in Kristoff’s hair and instead used it to trace delicate, teasing circles around the sensitive skin surrounding the nub of his anus, chuckling when Kristoff practically melted beneath his touch.

“Now, are you ready?” he murmured, taking his cock into his hand and pressing the slick head of it against Kristoff’s anus.

“Mmhmm – I am, my king,” Kristoff assented, biting down on the lounge to stifle his cries and gripping the arm of the chaise to brace himself.

Still stroking Kristoff’s cock, Hans plunged inside of him, crying out in ecstasy as he felt the blonde’s inner muscles relax around him before contracting, squeezing his shaft and eliciting from him a deep, heart-felt moan. He felt lightheaded, dizzy as he thrust in and out of the boy’s tight entrance, though whether from the sheer strength of his pleasure or from the brandy, he wasn’t sure. He was in no state of mind to tell. He settled into a regular, steady groove with his thrusts, making sure to not move too fast or too suddenly for fear of hurting his lover, jamming himself in to the hilt each time before backing out again slowly.

“Oh, Hans, my king – _oh!_” Kristoff cried out sharply, the pressure he felt coiled as tight as a spring in his belly alerting him to the fact that he was about to reach his climax. Hans, too, was close – he sped up his pace, working one fist over Kristoff’s cock and using the other to grasp his hips for support as he rammed himself into the blonde to the hilt once more.

_ Finally _he reached his peak, burying himself as far in as he could before filling Kristoff with his hot seed, gasping, his fringe plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Hans continued to milk his lover, and several moments later Kristoff came, a wordless scream spilling from his lips, his own thick come coating Hans’s still-gloved hand, soaking the material right through.

Spent, the prince collapsed onto Kristoff’s back, utterly exhausted. Hans’s cheek was pressed firmly against his back, his flushed skin warm against his own.

They lay there like that for several minutes, the rise and fall of their chests almost perfectly in sync as they each fought for breath, fought to regain their composure. Kristoff closed his eyes, sighing contentedly, before opening them again, twisting around to gaze up at Hans with wide, adoring eyes. His eyes were closed, and his regal profile was perfectly defined against the glow of the fire that still crackled cheerily in the hearth. He smiled, but his face quickly fell when a particularly angry gust of wind caught his attention.

“Well… I guess I better go. Sven’s still out there, so…” He trailed off. There was no reply – Hans appeared to be asleep.

Kristoff wormed his way from beneath the sleeping prince, taking great care not to disturb him while simultaneously struggling to extract all of his limbs and appendages. Finally, though, he stood up, glancing around for his clothes and bundling them into his arms.

After checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, Kristoff leaned over and touched his lips briefly to Hans’s, and somehow that one kiss felt more intimate, and certainly more romantic, than all the rest of the night’s endeavours put together. “Sleep well, my prince – my king.”

He was halfway to the door, trousers, vest, shirt and mittens in hand when he heard his name, so soft he at first thought he must have imagined it. Then, again, louder this time: “Kristoff?”

He hesitated; what could Hans possibly want? “Yeah?”

Hans’s head popped up from behind the back of the lounge, his hair adorably mussed, his lids hooded in fatigue so overwhelming it was practically contagious. “Can you… can you stay? Please?”

“I…” Kristoff sighed, shaking his head. “I can’t. And you’ll… you’ll regret it in the morning.”

Hans pouted. Then his upper lip curled, and he was smirking, a glint of that same wild, devilish king he had glimpsed before reappearing in his green eyes.

“But baby, it’s _cold _outside.”

Kristoff grinned.

“Yeah, you’re right. It is.”

The prince embraced him with open, loving arms, and that night the two remained warm long after the last glowing embers of the fire had been reduced to ashes.


End file.
